


Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak

by TheReader321



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24214090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReader321/pseuds/TheReader321
Summary: A compilation of ideas and one-shots that have come to mind during the current Lockdown. Some may be expanded into actual works at a later point.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. Minister Riddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the idea of Voldemort achieving power through political means rather than through insurrection. In the style of the British version of House of Cards.

“And for what purpose are we being asked to pay tribute to the good burghers of the ICW once more, Chief Warlock Selwyn?’ Malfoy demanded, waving down several of his colleagues who wanted to offer an answer. “I will tell you why. My colleagues in the ICW have told me of their latest plans is to issue a standardised history of Wizarding Europe to be enforced in all our schools. Sort of.. to give our children a common perspective. To bring the next generation of Wizarding Europe together.”

Several members (Diggle and Podmore most prominently) of the Opposition Front Bench were nodding their heads in fervent approval. Harry cursed them. They should have known better.

“A visionary epistle. Apparently, in the eyes of Supreme Mugwump Jorgen and his Revisionist cronies, Grindelwald never invaded Poland, the Swiss never retreated, the French never surrendered and our great nation never won the war. It’s almost as if the Supreme Mugwump wants us to believe that the great Albus Dumbledore died for _nothing_.”

Pandemonium immediately erupted in every corner of the august Chamber, the discord being so great that it was impossible to tell who was shouting in support and who in condemnation of the Foreign Secretary. But despite this, Harry had sprung to his feet, the flush on his face indicating beyond doubt the great depths of his moral outrage. Malfoy, always willing to plumb such depths, immediately gave way.

“In all my years in this Chamber I have never heard such an ill-tempered and bellicose performance by a Government Official!” Harry began. “My dear colleagues, my fellow Witans, it is clear to me that when all the rest of Europe is looking for a common way forward, the Foreign Secretary seems intent on acting like an obstinate child.”

“And his Minister, our Minister of six consecutive terms, who likes to _pretend_ he is a statesman, sits beside him and cheers him on...”

At this, the noise in the chamber - the jeers and the taunts - grew to ungodly heights. Verbal sparring between members of the Minister’s party was common, even anticipated. But to challenge Minister Riddle himself? And from a former protégé? Never before had anyone demonstrated such insubordination. Perhaps the representative from Godric’s Hollow had become confused with his targets some of the wise men of the Chamber whispered amongst themselves.

In the seat beside Malfoy, the Minister was chatting with Daphne (his new _Senior Undersecretary!_ Harry thought with disgust) who was leaning down from her guard post in the row behind to whisper something in his ear. From where Harry stood, it looked almost like an affectionate nuzzle. His sense of personal betrayal grew fiercer.

From his position amongst the backbenchers, he continued. “And when the rest of Europe is as one, for Merlin’s sake should we not be _joining_ with them rather than braying over old wars?'

“In my Grandfather’s day they called that appeasement!” Malfoy shouted, but made no attempt to reclaim the floor. He was rather enjoying the sight of Potter being wound tight like a spring.

“This Administration is picking foreign quarrels for the sole purpose of covering up its _failures_ at home. It has lost all moral authority to continue in office...”

Nearby, Longbottom was nodding his head in approval, urging him on, while several others around him were also trying to listen, their heads inclined in sympathy rather than joining the general commotion. Through it all, Malfoy could be heard scoffing: “So he's found morality since he was kicked out of office, has he? How convenient for my _distinguished_ colleague.”

“As the Druids themselves have recently said in their Grand Conclave, this country needs a change in direction and a new sense of moral leadership - a leadership which this Government and Minister does not even deign to provide.”

That was enough for Malfoy, who sprang to his feet and started thumping the Dispatch Box. “What have you ever achieved compared to Thomas Riddle?" he was shouting. “Compared with him you're like a pork-scratching on a pig farm. Minister Riddle has brought peace and prosperity to this great country, order to Azkaban...”

The mention of Azkaban arrived like a slap across the face to Harry. It seemed to have galvanized the Minister, too, who was tugging at the sleeve of his Foreign Secretary. Malfoy, startled at this unusual intervention from his Minister, subsided into his seat, his place at the Dispatch Box seized by Riddle. The Wizengamot at once fell to silence, fascinated to catch the next turn of the circus that today had become.

Riddle cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt my Right Honourable Friend - I was rather enjoying his contribution - but all this talk about morality, and conclaves. So muddled and misleading. You know, Chief Warlock Selwyn, I find it extraordinary that those who spend so much time warning about the dire consequences of wrong-doing in the afterlife are often so silent about it in this life. Turn the other cheek, they suggest.” He sighed. “But if that is the self-appointed role adopted by the Druids, that cannot be the role for Government - at least not _my_ Government. Our job is not to forgive and pray for those who have done wrong. The duty of elected government is to protect those who have not.”

If Harry had thrown down the gauntlet of morality, Riddle seemed intent on retrieving it and using it as a weapon to attack.

“Do not misunderstand me Chief Warlock Selwyn, I have a high regard for the contribution made to the success of my Government by the Right Honourable Witan of Godric’s Hollow while he was a member of it...” He offered a slow smile soaked in derision. “Although I don't quite recall sitting round the Cabinet table hearing him expound on how we were making such a mess of things. Not until I sacked him. But loss of office can have such a distorting effect on a man's perspective and memory.”

The gauntlet struck again. _SLAP!_

“I don't doubt the sincerity of his personal convictions, but I must admit I do find them odd. Odd when he says we must do this or that, simply because the Druids say so. Even more extraordinary that we should follow this or that course of action because the rest of Wizarding Europe says so. Where is the morality in that? In secondhand opinions? Does the Right Honourable gentleman wish for Britain to follow the herd like dogs follow a dust cart?’”

_Slap._

“Morality is about deciding for yourself what is right. Then getting up and doing something about it. Let me have around me men of action, not indecisive _moralizers_ and philosophers with empty words. I have nothing but _scorn_ for those..” - Riddle’s eyes lashed in the direction of his former colleague - “..who sit back and carp at the efforts of others. Who descend from their high moral vantage points after the battle is over and tell the wounded and dying how they got it all wrong...”

Harry tried not to flinch, but inside he hurt. Daphne’s taunt still echoed in his ears - sitting on the sidelines, she had accused him of weakness - and now this. Like vultures they were out to humble him, together. He looked around him as the blows rained down. Those he regarded as supporters were shifting uncomfortably in their places while Neville’s expression urged him on - _for Merlin’s sake man do something!_ He rose to his feet, requesting the floor.

“No, no,” Riddle slapped him down. “I have heard just about enough dogma from him to last me a good long while.”

Harry held his ground, demanding to be heard, his clenched hand raised - it still gripped Daphne’s letter - while Riddle’s loyalists were jeering, shouting at him to sit down and resume his place, as if he was a mere boy walloped by his teacher. _Slap, slap, slap!_ Harry stood alone, defying the blows, but was he simply to stand there? - doing nothing, as Riddle had taunted - allowing himself to be gouged and mauled? Neville’s eyes brimmed with sorrow as his own teared up with the injustice of it all.

“Since he lost office,” The Minister was saying, “his attitude has become so critical, so negative, so personally embittered and destructive that I sometimes wonder what the man is doing in the same great party as me.”

_SLAP!_

So there it was. The public challenge. Like Hector with Achilles, Harry knew he had no choice but to respond. All around him those with whom he had discussed and conspired were examining him as if he was a bug in a cage, wondering whether he was up to the duel. Potter against Riddle. He knew that if he ducked the challenge at this moment it would be all but impossible to persuade some of the conspirators to join with him at a later point. Yet it was too soon, too early, he wasn't fully prepared. ‘Don't be too impatient, emotional,’ Neville had warned... but even eagles must fly with the wind. And if he played the politician then he had also been born a man, and that man was hurting inside, his cheeks smarting, his thoughts misted by a dark and deepening fury which _roared_ for satisfaction.

Satisfaction. For the humiliations delivered publicly on the floor of the Chamber. Satisfaction for the insults delivered more privately in the letter in his hand. Satisfaction for stealing away Daphne.

Satisfaction for it all. _Now!_

From his position on the benches three rows up, Harry stepped sideways into the gangway. Was he running away? He could almost hear their thoughts. The prospect brought the Wizengamot to instant and observant silence. He stepped down towards the floor of the great Chamber, to the red lines drawn on the carpet which separated Government side from opponents by the measure of two swords, the boundary between friend and unremitting foe. Then he stepped across. Not a heart beat anywhere, not a sound to be heard, a Chamber so packed with emotion yet as though frozen. They watched as Harry mounted the steps through the benches of Opposition, one, two, three rows, and took a vacant seat.

The Wizengamot exhaled with a single breath as life returned and tumult was restored. They had witnessed a slice of parliamentary life so rare it would fill their chronicles and be retold to grandchildren around the fire. Harry Potter, the elected Witan of Godric’s Hollow, had crossed the floor, abandoned his party, torn up the political rule book and declared war on Riddle, to the last breath.

Yet as he looked across the Chamber to the benches from which he had fought for so many years, Harry thought he saw the shadow of a faint, fugitive smile cross Thomas Riddle’s lips. And as his eyes wandered to the row above that damned old man, to glance upon the face of someone he had once thought he could even love, he saw horror instead of anger, fear instead of surprise. He could almost make out something from her lips, a whispered sentence. “Harry... _what have you done?_ ”


	2. Tribute to Minstrel Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a tribute to Minstrel Knight's 'Tyrant', which introduced me to fanfiction in the first place.

As they crossed Westminster Bridge, picking their way between the puddles, Cedric spoke. “Dictator, may I send word ahead that we are coming?”

“Of course Cedric. ” Immediately, one of Cedric’s elves apparated away.

When they entered the Palace they found some four hundred parliamentarians dotted around the lounge, some reading, some dictating to scribes, some stretched out asleep on the grass, some clustered in chattering, laughing groups.

From his position at the bar, Remus strode to meet them and fiercely shook Sirius hand. “Hail, Esteemed Father. We had about given up on you until Diggory’s messenger came running in.”

Sirius dropped Remus’ hand with a cold look that said it was nobody’s business how late the Dictator was (he had still not forgiven him for his mismanagement of his legion), and left the lounge. Passing through the hallway and making sure to acknowledge all who passed him, he bounded up the steps to the House of Commons, two guards in his wake, one with his ivory throne and a folding table, the other with a sack full of scrolls and quills. They set up his chair and table at the front of the curule dais, received a nod of dismissal and scampered away. Satisfied the furniture was correctly placed, Sirius emptied the sack of its contents a few at a time, setting the scrolls neatly one on top of the other along the back of the table, then seated himself with the papers stacked to his left and a handful of quills beside them in case he wished to take notes.

“He’s working already,” said Cedric, joining the twenty-two others waiting outside the doorway of the chamber, that had been amassing around the figures of Amelia Bones, Barty Crouch and Rufus Scrimgeour (the ringleaders of the conspiracy). “About forty MPs are inside, none near the curule end. Ronald, it is time to act.”

Ron moved immediately to join Remus, who had decided that the best way to keep Cedric outside was to stay with him and make an effort to be civil. Their personal guards, twelve each, were standing some distance away.

An addition to the plan had occurred to Ron during the night, and he put it into effect as soon as Draco came in with his six guards. Namely, that out of respect for the Dictator, who had been opting for forego personal guards for months now as a sign of humility to the people, all the Parliamentary leaders should dismiss their guards and attend the session without them. None objected as Severus went the rounds of the other officials; glad of this unexpected holiday, the guards hurriedly apparated back to their college, which was located on Charring Cross beside the Leaky Cauldron, and therefore convenient for a thirsty wizard.

“My dear mentor, stay outside with me a while,” Ron said cheerfully to Remus, “there’s something urgent that I need to discuss with you.”

Rufus had noticed a crony playing chess with a few others, nodded to a few of his conspirators that they still had time to waste, and went to join the game; he was feeling rather lucky today.

While Remus and Ron talked earnestly outside the entrance to the chamber, Barty led the Conspirators inside. Had any of the MPs left in the garden thought to look at them, he might have wondered at the gravity of their faces, the slightly furtive manner they had unconsciously adopted; but no one looked- so focused were they on their mission.

The chamber, large enough to hold almost a thousand members when crammed, looked very empty despite the few backbenchers already seated, most likely scholarly muggles who would seize upon any opportunity to learn more about Wizarding life. They were all fairly evenly distributed between the two sides of the House, right top tier and left top tier. Very good, thought Barty, shepherding his flock ahead of him, glancing back to see Draco still outside — lost his courage, had he?

Sirius still sat with his head bent over an unfurled letter, lost to the world. Suddenly he moved, but not to look at the group walking down the center of the floor. His left hand plucked the top quill and paper off his stack and began to write something quickly and deftly.

Within ten feet of the dais the group came to a confused halt; it didn’t seem proper that Sirius would fail to notice his assassins (so fixated were they on thoughts of their own future glory). Barty’s eyes went to the statue of the late Frank Longbottom, very tall on its four-foot plinth, nestled into its alcove at the back of the platform, which was expansive, as it had to hold between sixteen and twenty men seated on chairs. At this reminder of the fate of their former leader and fingers suddenly clumsy, Barty felt for his enchanted dagger, withdrew it, held it hidden by his side. He could sense the others doing the same, saw Draco scuttle up the chamber out of the corner of his eye — it seemed the young man had finally found the courage after all.

McLaggen walked up the lictors’ step seats at the side of the dais, his dagger on naked display.

“Wait, you impatient fool, wait!” Sirius barked irritably, his head still down, quill still moving.

Lips tightening in moral outrage, McLaggen cast his fellow Consipirators a fierce glare — _see what a boor our Dictator is?_ — and strode forward to yank the robe away from the left side of Sirius’ neck. But Barty, pushing up on McLaggen’s left, got in first, driving down from behind at Sirius’ throat. The blow glanced off the collarbone, inflicted a superficial wound at the top of the chest. Sirius was on his feet so quickly that the movement was a blur, striking out instinctively with his fists. It smashed directly into Percy’s face as the rest of the Conspirators, emboldened, pressed forward with daggers and wands raised.

Though he fought strenuously, Sirius neither cried out nor spoke. The table went flying, scrolls raining everywhere, the throne followed, and streaming drops of blood. Now some of the Parliamentarians on the top tiers were looking, exclaiming in horror, but none dared move to come to the Dictator’s aid. Severus pushed to the fore, sank his blade into Sirius’ face, screwed it around, enucleating an eye and rendering that beauty nonexistent. A furore descended as the Conspirators crowded in, daggers rising and falling, blood spurting now. Suddenly Sirius ceased to struggle, accepting the inevitable; that unique mind directed its flagging energies to dying with dignity unimpaired. His left hand came up to pull a fold of robe over his face and hide it, his right clenched the robe so that when he fell his legs would be decently covered. No one among this cabal should see what Sirius thought as he died, nor be able to jeer at the memory of Sirius' legs bared.

A recovered Percy stabbed him in the back, Amelia in the shoulder. Bleeding terribly, Sirius still stood as the flurry of blows continued. Revenge for his father the only thing on his mind, Cedric put everything he had into the first of his two stabs, deep into the left side of Sirius’ chest. As the dagger went home to his heart, Sirius collapsed in a heap, Cedric following him down to deal his second blow, for Ron as he promised. And Draco ( _the Kinslayer!)_ , the last to strike, blinded by sweat, palsied by fear, knelt to jab his knife at his Uncle’s heart, its tip piercing the many folds of robe because, entirely by accident, Draco had aimed directly downward. He heard the enchanted metal grind and crunch on bone, retched, and scrambled to his feet as a searing pain crossed the back of his hand; it seemed that someone had cut him.

The deed was done. All twenty-two conspirators had wounded Sirius somewhere, Cedric twice. Face and legs covered, Sirius laid unmoving beneath the statue he had had made of Longbottom his once friend-turned-nemesis, his imperial robes sliced to ribbons around his chest and back, soaking up the brilliantly red blood spreading over the white marble of the platform until it seemed there couldn’t possibly be more blood to come, there was so much of it pouring everywhere. Everywhere. Some skipped to avoid it, but Cedric did not notice it until it flowed around his shoes and percolated inside; he whimpered, sure it burned him.

Sobbing for breath, the Conspirators stared at one another, eyes wild, Draco absorbed in trying to staunch his own bleeding hand. As if by instantaneous yet unvoiced consent, they turned and ran for the doors, Cedric as panicked as the rest. The MPs who had witnessed the deed were already outside, screaming and screaming to all that could hear that he was dead, _**Sirius Black was dead**!_ The panic became universal as the Conspirators emerged from the steps of the Palace, robes bloody, knives and wands still fists sticky with crimson liquid.

Men and women fled in all directions save into the House; Politicians, guards, servants and elves took to their heels, howling that Sirius was dead, the Dictator was dead, **_Sirius was dead_!**

All their grand plans for speeches and thundering oratory all but forgotten, the Liberators fled too. Who among them could ever have believed that the reality would be so different from the dream, that staring at Sirius dead was such a terrible end to ideas, to philosophies, to aspirations? Only after the deed was done did any of them, even vengeful Cedric, truly understand its meaning. The nation had finally been liberated from the despot but with all the changes that had happened, could it ever return to what it once was?


	3. Sirius' Heir 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the others, I plan for this one to consist of at least three parts. Starting to enter a bit of a Roman phase here (just took a classical history elective lol), but while I enjoy the few fanfics I've seen depict Sirius as Julius Caesar I've always seen him as more similar to Tiberius.

“I wish I'd stayed in Godric’s Hollow. I wish I'd never returned.” The man slumped weakly against the back of his throne. Slate grey hair wildly hung almost to his shoulders. The flesh beneath his eyes sagged. He looked up morosely to the only other occupant of the room, a young man dressed in the dark robes of the Ministerial Guard. The eldest son of his most loyal friend.

Harry chuckled upon hearing this. “Well someone has to govern, Sirius. Wizarding Britain is fortunate that she has you….. They say that the greatest ruler is the one who is most reluctant to govern.”

“Yes I suppose so….” Sirius grumbled. “….in any case I'm always fortunate to have you and your family, Harry. You and your father are my eyes and my ears. There is no one else that I trust to speak to me with nothing but the truth. Were it only that I was born a Potter rather than have this throne thrust upon me….. What have we here?” Sirius remarked suddenly, pointing towards the documents that Harry had, grasped in his hand.

“These are verbatim reports of conversations taken down by my father’s sources. Several are merely vicious…. Others unfortunately may be treasonable.”

Sirius scoffed, his expression twisting in disgust. “Does anybody in this country ever say anything that isn't either beastly or treasonable? I swear in the last few years, we've had more trials for treason than in the entirety of my mother and grandfather’s reigns!”

Harry’s expression turned serious. “Sirius, there is one file I think you should look at in particular.”

Sirius hummed, continuing to parse through the files. Upon noticing a particular name, he looked up towards Harry again in alarm and suspicion. “Lucius Malfoy?” Harry merely nodded in response.

Irritation pricking at him, Sirius scowled. “…Is he not the husband to my cousin, the father of my nephew and future successor? What cause does Malfoy have to complain?”

“That's just the thing, Sirius. Apparently he publicly uttered the following statement during a ball hosted by Cassander Greengrass: ‘Had it not been for the way my father handled the Auror Corps, they would have mutinied too.’”

“He said that?…Well, what did he mean by it?”

“Well, he went on to say that if the Aurors had joined with Grindelwald after Albus Dumbledore’s defeat, your grandfather Arcturus Black would never have been declared Lord Protector. He implies, of course, that your family owes their rank and dynasty to the Malfoys.”

Face contorting in fury, Sirius clenched and unclenched his fists. “And is that all?” _After everything that my Mother gave to him, everything that I have given him? __How could he have done this to me?, the voice in his head whispered to him._

“I think that perhaps there may be more to it than that. But…then again…nevermind. Anyways—“

Eyes narrowed, Sirius spoke in a cold and deadly tone that Harry had only heard rarely before, when his father had brought him to the palace as a young boy. “Harry, as your Lord Protector and Master, I _order_ you to tell me everything that you heard about what Malfoy said.”

Pausing briefly, Harry allowed himself a moment of contemplation. _Whether to stop or continue?_ _Were the benefits really worth all the pain and brutality that this plan would bring to Britain?_

He went in for the kill. “Oh, well only that he went on to say, as you'd have seen lower down the document, that the battalions that did mutiny were the ones on the Continent that were once under your command. But perhaps he only said so because the Lestranges were there. An after dinner compliment to their late father whose regiments, of course, remained loyal.”

Sirius suddenly rose up from his throne, a vortex of controllable rage bursting through his veins. “ _Bellatrix_ was there? _Bellatrix_?!?!”


End file.
